


desert flowers

by Serpents_Cradle



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Game 48 Feels, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Porn with Feelings, Prose Poem, Roadie Meetups, i have a lot of feelings about these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 01:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpents_Cradle/pseuds/Serpents_Cradle
Summary: He opens the door and it'sMarc, not Sid, eyes soft and hair pushed back with gel like always. Kris swears the ground tilts beneath him. Marc gives him one of his favorite smiles, roses clutched in his hands, the baby blue of the bouquet paper contrasting with the red of the blossoms.





	desert flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for this.  
> \--  
> I don't own anyone mentioned or depicted. Please remember that RPF is fictional. Don't go and harass NHLers about their love lives over fic.

Kris wakes from a nap, vision blurred from sleep, to the soft rap of knuckles on the door to his shitty San Jose hotel room. Sid's out and about, but he he his own key, and Kris is about to ignore it and go back to sleep. 

However, he'd rather miss a few sweet seconds of rest than have to deal with his Captain's wrath over locking him out.

Kris opens the door and it's _Marc_ , not Sid, eyes soft and hair pushed back with gel like always. Kris swears the ground tilts beneath him. Marc gives him one of his favorite smiles, roses clutched in his hands, the baby blue of the bouquet paper contrasting with the red of the blossoms.

Kris steps aside quietly, takes the flowers from his hands, prevents himself from grabbing Marc by the jacket and pulling him in.

Neither of them speaks. Not yet, when memories hang in the air like fresh oranges just waiting to be picked, their sweet flesh tantalizing but sour until time ripens them just so. Kris knows why he is here.

The door closes behind him, and silence between them has never been so deafening. It is easy to ignore when thousands of miles are between them, but now it crashes like the ocean in his ears. The pulse of it ticks down the milliseconds. 

Marc stops it with a touch. The roses fall from Kris's hands and their petals decorate the floor.

Marc’s lips are soft on his own, a bit chapped but still strawberry pink and gentle, the same as always. His hair falls in his eyes and his stupid smile never fades but the sight of it cuts right to his heart.

In that moment, Kris realizes just how much he misses him, misses the celebrations and the consolations and the times they spent a little less than sober and it makes his heart _ache_. He fists his hands in the fabric of Marc's shirt with the wrong logo on it and pulls, letting him pin him against the door and take, take, take.

He wonders absently if the proud desert tree would choose to give up its wood if it knew it would go to a better place, to building boats and homes and treehouse fortresses in the branches of its most distant relatives. He thinks, if he were a joshua tree, he wouldn't let go of a piece of himself; but he knows life has a way of taking what it wants.

There are fingers in his unkempt hair and on his very soul when Marc pulls away again, the words hanging between them in the silence. Silence is a language neither French nor English but its meaning is known to both of them either way.

Marc lays him down soft, drags the world out of the way and fills in the cracks with himself, heals the pain even if it's only for the night. Kris cries when he sinks in, overcome with emotion and wanting and sheer _sadness_ , because when will they have this again?

But Marc just dries his tears with his kisses and whispers _mon beau moineau_ to him as he falls over the edge, and then he's crying too, face tucked into Kris's shoulder as he weeps. 

Kris holds him close, steady and strong and careful for him, promises him they will be alright, stops himself from shaking apart into nothing.

Marc stays until he can't, swears he will always come back, but Kris knows nothing he says can change the truth. He leaves his jacket on the floor of the hotel room when he leaves. Kris runs the pads of his fingers over the fabric and chokes out a sob.

The desert tree does not wish to give its wood to a human's purpose any more than a human wishes to give its most dear to the desert.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://evgenismalkin.tumblr.com).


End file.
